


Tie Me Up, Hold me Tight

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, First Time, M/M, Sam/Dean Mini-Bang Challenge 2013, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam accidentally binds himself to Dean and the more time passes, the worse he feels when Dean isn't nearby. While the boys are scrambling to find a reverse spell, Sam's need to be close to Dean makes them reevaluate their relationship. [reposted, first posted 5/11/2013]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie Me Up, Hold me Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Awesome [art](http://eyestoowide.livejournal.com/62042.html) by [eyestoowide](http://eyestoowide.livejournal.com).

It's Sam's own fault, because he knows the rules: never touch artifacts that could be cursed and never, ever say a spell out loud if you don't know what it'll do. Their dad drilled those rules into them again and again – and if nothing else, that goddamn rabbit foot should have taught them a lesson.

Apparently it didn't.

Sam is sorting through a box of journals and files that they found in one of the many rooms in the bunker, pushed to the very back of several rows of shelves, while Dean is off somewhere, doing god knows what.

Sam can't blame him, though, because it's so typically Dean to make himself scarce when there's research to do. Sam's been stuck in the dark, dusty room for hours and even he's starting to feel frustrated because the work is so tedious. There's nothing particularly exciting about any of the files he's read, and he continues to skim through the papers with more than a bit of boredom. Mostly it seems to be notes on research, all neatly sorted and dated, but it's all very basic and none of it is on anything which seems like it might come in handy some day. 

Sam appreciates research and he appreciates thoroughness. This, though, borderlines hoarding. The Men of Letters might have been smart, but they didn't know how to distinguish between important and unimportant information all too well.

Sam, however, is determined to read as much as he can anyway, to soak up all the knowledge the bunker offers. It's his way of making the bunker home: Dean nests, and Sam familiarizes himself with everything down to the last scrap of paper he can find.

Three hours and five boxes later, he finds a journal at the bottom of a box. It's old and leather-bound, and the first really promising thing he's found. As he flips it open a folded piece of paper falls out. 

It's a page from a book, neatly ripped out and yellowed around the edges. There are just a few lines on the page. The language looks completely unfamiliar, to the point where Sam wonders if maybe it's an arithmetical language, a code of some sort, or maybe some strange dialect. He reads the lines several times, trying to make sense of them. There's no pattern he can detect, and he mouths the words slowly, thinking maybe sounding them out will help him make sense of the writing, but they sound garbled, fake.

"Huh," he mutters. He smooths the page out and puts it on top of the stack of folders next to him, intending to take a closer look at it later, with more light and books to research. 

He grabs the next file, brushes a damp strand of hair out of his face, and continues reading.

"Found anything interesting?" Dean asks, handing Sam a beer.

Sam shrugs, accepting it. "Not really. A couple of notes with stuff I want to look up," he says and takes swig, the beer cool and bitter. "What have you been up to all day?"

"Car needed a little tuning," Dean says, sitting down next to Sam. Sam gives him a look, but Dean only smirks. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Sammy. I _did_ find us a new case, too."

"Yeah? What?" Sam asks, perking up. 

Dean grins, looking pleased, and grabs a newspaper from the table. Their fingers brush together when Sam reaches for it, and he swears he feels a small jolt go through him at the contact. He glances at Dean, thinking maybe Dean felt it too, but his expression hasn't changed, so Sam shakes it off and looks down at the newspaper instead. Dean has circled an article with bright yellow marker.

"College kid drowned in a river. The third drowning in four months," Dean says before Sam can read it.

"Hmm, so what are we thinking? Demon? Water spirit?" Sam guesses. "Maybe a Kelpie or Bunyip?"

"Not sure yet," Dean says with a shrug. "I looked up the other two drownings, too, though."

"And? Anything interesting?" 

"Nothing that sounded too out of the ordinary, to be honest. All three vics were male, between twenty and late thirties. They disappeared and their bodies were found in the lake a few days later each time," Dean says. "They'd be pretty standard drownings, if you ask me, if it wasn't for the fact that it's three within less than half a year."

Sam hums, and finally reads the article himself. 

Dean is right, it sounds pretty normal, but the number of drownings is definitely suspicious, and Sam nods when he's done reading and meets Dean's expectant gaze.

"Okay. Can't hurt to go check it out. How about I do some more research and then drive up to," he glances back at the article, "Caesar Creek Lake, Ohio."

"Man, I hope it's a lake monster," Dean says, sitting back. There's way too much glee in his voice and Sam rolls his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure the corpses would look different if it was an actual lake monster," he says, and stands up to get his laptop from the other side of the table. "I'll see if I can find out anything else about the lake. Anything that sounds off."

Dean claps his hands together. "Good. I'll go make dinner. What do you want?"

"Something not dripping with oil and preferably healthy," Sam answers.

Dean looks thoughtful, then shrugs. "Burgers it is," he says, and Sam sighs. 

"I'll put some lettuce in yours. And a tomato," Dean adds, tone placating.

"Gee, thanks," Sam mutters, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean's grin is way too happy as he leaves, taking his beer with him, and Sam just looks at his retreating back, not bothering to make another comment. Burgers might not be the healthiest thing to eat, but Dean's burgers, at least, aren't as bad as the usual diner food they've had over the years. Tastes better, too. It's still a bit weird, thinking about Dean in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, but Dean seems to enjoy it and Sam isn't going to turn down regular home-cooked food. 

Plus, it amuses him how freaking domestic Dean has turned out to be. If it wasn't Dean – who would kick his ass six ways to Sunday for even thinking about thinking it – Sam would probably be inclined to call it sweet, the way Dean has settled in and is taking care of the chores around the bunker. As it is, Sam lets all of it slide without too many snarky remarks and reaps the benefits.

Smiling to himself at the thought, Sam starts his laptop and begins researching.

Thirty minutes later, Sam has skimmed a couple dozen of articles on Caesar Creek Lake, but hasn't found anything that might help them. He keeps clicking on new links halfheartedly, but doesn't pay much attention.

Instead, he keeps glancing at the archway, waiting for Dean to return with their food. It feels like Dean's been gone forever, even though Sam knows Dean hasn't been gone longer than usual, but Sam hasn't eaten much since breakfast and his body is letting him know that it needs food sooner rather than later.

He sighs in relief when Dean finally comes back, carrying two plates and two new beers, and he barely resists getting up to meet him halfway.

"Someone is impatient," Dean teases, putting a plate down in front of Sam with a quirk of his mouth.

Sam huffs and shoves Dean a little. It's more of a nudge, really, because Sam doesn't want him to drop his food or the beers. He waits until Dean has settled down before he reaches for his burger. He takes a huge bite and sighs contentedly, feeling better already.

"I didn't realize I was that goddamn hungry," he mutters around the second bite, and Dean grins.

"Good thing you have me around to keep you fed, Sammy," he mocks. "So, found anything on the case?"

"Not really. There've been several drownings stretching back over the last few decades, but that doesn't have to mean anything. Nothing about any of the deaths sounds particularly suspicious, anyway. A few fit the MO though – you know, male, young, went missing and then the body turned up in the lake," Sam says. "But that could just be coincidences. Not sure yet."

"Hmm," Dean says. "Still think there's something there."

"Probably," Sam agrees. "Three deaths that close together usually means something is up. I'm going to check if I find any local lore on the area after dinner."

"Good idea," Dean says, reaching for his beer. "Bet we can find some info on water spirits and water demons around here too."

"Yeah. But we can't be sure it's something in the water. There's forest around the lake, so it could be something else that just drops the bodies in the water after killing it."

"Means it could be anything," Dean mutters, frowning. "It'd take us forever to figure out what we're up against unless we find some more clues."

Sam shrugs. "Better to cover all of our bases than go in blind," he replies, and pops the last bit of his burger into his mouth. Dean sighs.

"So, more research. Great."

Sam pushes his plate away. "Tell you what, you do the dishes and I'll start researching local legends."

"You just don't want to do the dishes."

"And you don't want to do the research," Sam counters, and Dean looks like he's about to protest, but then he shrugs.

"Fine," he says. "You better find something good."

Sam doesn't. He finds some stuff on local lore in the wider area, but nothing about the lake or the park it's in. The stories he does find mostly sound like hoaxes and none of them would explain the three dead bodies.

Dean comes back from cleaning the dishes rather quickly, another two bottles of beer in his hands, and settles down next to Sam. Their chairs are close enough that Sam can feel the warmth of Dean's body, arms brushing together when one of them moves. 

"Nothing yet?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head. Dean grabs Sam's laptop, and Sam doesn't bother checking what he's doing. Dean is a comforting, familiar presence, the noise he makes relaxing Sam rather than distracting him. Feeling a new surge of motivation, Sam keeps reading.

Around ten, Dean tells Sam he's going to bed.

"I'll read a bit more," Sam says. "There's gotta be something."

"The problem isn't that there aren't any possible monsters, but that it could be anything. As long as we only have the fact that several guys died to go on, we're stabbing in the dark," Dean says with a snort.

Sam hums. "Yeah, but the fact that those three were male and young-ish is something to go on. Best guess is some kind of water spirit."

"If it's really just those guys," Dean reminds him. "You did say there were some other deaths that were different, but we can't completely rule out that they're connected somehow."

Sam leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples and sighing. "Well, for now I'm focusing on the guys," he says, and waves at a stack of books. "Maybe I'll find something in here."

"Well, I'm beat. Don't stay up too long. I want to get to Ohio before nightfall, so we're leaving early," Dean says, slapping Sam on the shoulder. 

Sam nods. Dean turns to go, and Sam feels the sudden urge to ask him to stay, but he bites the words back and waves Dean off instead. He turns his head, watching him leave, and it's not until Dean is out of sight that Sam turns back to the books.

He picks up the first one and wiggles around on his chair, trying to get comfortable before he starts reading. More than once, he has to re-read sentences or whole paragraphs, unable to fully concentrate, his mind wandering off.

Usually, Sam is a pretty fast and efficient researcher, but it takes him forever to get through the first two books, even though he's mostly just skimming a few chapters here and there. He's fidgety, and more than once he finds himself glancing at the archway, at the hallway leading to their bedrooms.

It's not until he finds a notation on one of the card files that looks promising that Sam finally manages to focus on his research. The notation leads him to a file in one of the storage rooms and Sam flips through it quickly. It's an eye-witness report cut from a newspaper, from a couple who encountered what Sam assumes is their monster in the forest near Caesar Creek Lake in 1924 two days before a body was found in the lake. 

One of the witnesses, an elderly man, is quoted to have seen a woman near the lake. The description is what catches Sam's attention – beautiful, otherworldly, and her skin shimmering oddly blueish. Fish-like, the article says, and Sam can tell from the way it's worded that the reporter thought the whole thing was bullshit, but it's exactly the kind of information he needs.

"Jackpot," Sam mutters and smiles, taking the file back to the library with him.

He manages another half an hour of reading, narrowing the list of possibilities down. He's pretty certain they're dealing with a Rusalka – a Slavic water-demon who can come onto land and seduces men, convincing them to come back to the water with her where she kills them. Sam makes a few notes, circling the name on a piece of paper and marks the page of the book he was reading.

As much as he would like to go on, he's tired and he can feel a headache forming behind his eyes. It's making him feel on edge and if they're going hunting the next day, Sam knows he needs to be in top shape, so he gives up and decides to get some sleep instead.

Despite how worn-out Sam feels, he tosses and turns.

When he finally nods off, his sleep is restless, close to the surface of wakefulness.

He dreams of Dean – hazy, soft images of him that feel more like memories. Nothing happens in the dream, none of Sam's usual nightmares and convoluted plots, but it's strangely unsettling anyway.

"Sammy," Dean says in his dreams, smiling at him. The smile is small and fond, and Sam feels it tug at his heart, feels himself drawn to Dean with a force that makes his chest ache. Dean looks different than he usually does – softer, happier. He reaches for Sam, rests his hand on Sam's wrist and Sam can't stop staring at him.

"Sammy," Dean repeats, voice a murmur, and he looks up at Sam through thick, dark lashes, their bodies suddenly only inches apart. His hand slides down Sam's, fingers brushing against Sam's palm, curling until their hands are loosely clasped together.

Dean's smile widens a little and he leans in until his forehead is resting against Sam's jaw. Sam breathes in and doesn't move, not wanting the moment to end.

He wakes up with a lump in his throat, his chest constricting almost painfully. It takes a moment for things to clear up, for Sam to fully realize that he's in bed, in his room, and he breathes in slowly, feels the tightness in his chest slowly dissipate.

"Fucking weird dream," he says to himself, and pushes himself up. 

The feeling from the night before hasn't vanished, and Sam runs a hand over his face. A shower and coffee are what he needs, he thinks, and swings his legs off the bed.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed but still not feeling quite like himself, Sam follows the smell of fresh coffee into the kitchen and finds Dean there. He has Sam's notes from last night in one hand, reading them, and he looks up when Sam comes in, smiling.

"Morning," he says.

"Hey. Is there coffee left?" Sam asks, nodding at Dean's mug. He feels a little better, more at ease, and he thinks maybe the shower did help after all.

"Sure," Dean replies and holds up the notes. "So, Rusalka?"

"If the eye-witness is legit, yeah," Sam says. "There's something in the book on how to kill it, too, but I was too tired to keep reading."

"They need to return to the water. Keep it out of the lake for a couple of hours and that's it," Dean replies, patting the thick book Sam had been reading the night before that's lying open in front of him now.

"Sounds simple enough," Sam says. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down next to Dean.

Dean shrugs. "Says here they're siren-like, so maybe not that easy, but we've had worse jobs," he says. He looks at Sam and frowns. "You okay?"

"Hmm, didn't sleep well," Sam says.

Dean watches him a moment longer, assessing. His eyes travel up and down Sam's body, searching for any signs of injury or illness, the way he always does. Usually, it mildly amuses and annoys Sam, the way Dean gets overprotective the moment Sam feels even the tiniest bit off, but now Dean's eyes on him make his stomach swoop, make him feel _good_.

Sam brushes it off and forces a smile. "Let me get my laptop and my duffel bag and we can hit the road," he suggests.

Dean gives him one more look, but then he nods, his posture relaxing.

It's late by the time they arrive in Waynesville, the town closest to the park.

Despite driving the second leg of the way, Sam feels more rested then he did that morning. He dozed the first couple of hours of the drive, lulled to sleep by the familiar sounds of one of Dean's cassette tapes and Dean humming along. When he woke up, he'd been low in the seat, his knee pressed against Dean's leg, and he'd felt recharged, a feeling which has lasted for the rest of the day.

They check into a motel room, deciding to ask around town a little the next day and then check the park and lake later.

Sam falls onto the bed, turning to face the one Dean will be sleeping in. He's out within in minutes, nodding off to the sounds of Dean bustling around.

The sun is setting when they make it to Caesar Creek Park the next afternoon and they walk along the shore of the lake slowly, looking around.

"Question is, how do we lure the thing out of the water since it obviously doesn't feel like playing tonight?" Dean asks, looking at the still water spreading out ahead of them. They've been walking for almost an hour, and so far all they've encountered are a few animals and countless mosquitoes. 

Sam shrugs, scratching his arm where he's been bitten. "We fit the descriptions of the victims. Guess our best hope is that it comes out on its own when it sees us," he says.

"Great. Fish bait," Dean says. "I swear, if that thing drags me into the water, I'll fucking kill you."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam starts and then halts, turning his head when he hears something off in the distance. "Shh. Hear that?"

"What?" Dean asks, voice quiet.

Sam nods at the line of trees, his hand automatically shooting out to curl around Dean's arm, keeping him from moving. There's the softest sound of a female voice, a murmur more than the singing Sam was expecting.

"Let's go," Dean says, giving Sam a nod. "And remember to shoot the second you see that thing. Hopefully it'll distract it long enough that we can overpower it before it lures us in."

Sam raises his gun a little, fingers curling around the trigger. "You know," he says in a whisper. "Maybe we should have come up with a plan that's a bit more elaborate, instead of just vague assumptions of what might work."

Dean snorts softly. "Those kinda plans served us pretty well for the last decade, Sammy," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes and doesn't remind Dean of the endless times those plans almost didn't end well for them.

"Okay. Showtime," he mutters instead, and follows Dean.

They don't have to walk far into the forest. After a couple of minutes, the line of trees break and there's a clearing.

"Shit," Sam hisses, taking in the scene ahead of them. 

A woman is in the middle of the clearing, long dark hair waving in the soft breathe and silky, floating clothes wrapped around her body. Only, she isn't alone. She's swaying, dancing around a man who is staring at her, enthralled.

"What now?" Sam asks, turning to look at Dean. 

Dean raises his gun and cocks an eyebrow at Sam. "Let's hope my aim is good," he says, and Sam doesn't have time to reply before Dean fires. The woman shrieks and Sam springs into action without second thought. He drops his backpack to the ground and grabs his knife and a long piece of rope from it.

"You get the guy out of the way, I'll get the Rusalka," he says, and sprints into the clearing. He can hear Dean behind him, heavy footsteps making the leaves rustle and twigs break under his boots.

"More guests," the woman says as she looks at them, expression still pained but her voice soft and melodic. The man, her victim, is standing almost motionless, still staring at her and making no move to run away.

"Sammy, duck," Dean yells, and another shot goes off the moment Sam complies. The Rusalka shrieks again, clutching her stomach.

Sam uses the moment to his advantage and tackles her, drives the silver knife into her and feels a moment of satisfaction when he hears her gasp.

"That can't kill me," she hisses, big eyes staring up at Sam and Sam grins. 

"Nah, but it can still hurt," he says and twists the knife. The Rusalka writhes and staggers. Sam forcefully pushes her against a tree behind her and pulls the knife up, feels it slice through flesh.

The Rusalka's breathing is ragged, watery with pain, and Sam pins her in place with all of his weight as he tries to wind the rope around her. It's a bit of a struggle, and he ends up with several scratches along his arms and his left cheek, but the Rusalka is hurt enough by the silver knife that he manages to keep the upper hand and tie her to the tree. It's not until she's secure that Sam looks over his shoulder. He can see Dean disappearing into the trees, propping up the guy, and he knows Dean will be back within minutes. He pulls the knife out of the Rusalka's abdomen and takes a step back, weapon raised. 

Sam gets what the witness quoted in the article: there's something not quite human about her look. Her skin has a blueish-green touch to it. Along her neck, where her hair isn't covering her skin, there are a few scattered scales.

"You think it's that easy," the Rusalka asks, voice soft and sweet despite her injuries. 

"Looks like it," Sam replies.

The woman tips her head to the side, hair falling into her face. She's beautiful, hair soft and shiny, her deep dark eyes on Sam, red lips curved into a gentle smile.

"Untie me," she murmurs. "Come on. You want it, don't you? Want to help me. I'll reward you. You can be with me, if you help me – forever."

To Sam's surprise, the words trigger no reaction, no longing or want. Sam looks at her and smirks. "No, thank you."

For a split moment, the Rusalka looks stunned before she narrows her eyes at him. "I said, untie me," she says, voice more forceful, and Sam shrugs.

"Don't think I will, sorry."

"No one can resist me. No human. Ever," the Rusalka says and before Sam can reply, she makes a hissing sound, her expression twisting until her beautiful face is transformed into something ugly and dark. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Sam asks, and for a split second he thinks it's the demon blood in him, the fact that Sam, as much as he wishes to deny it, still isn't completely human. Completely clean.

"Bound," the Rusalka sneers instead. "You're bound."

"I'm what?" Sam asks, stunned.

"If I can't control you, someone else already is," the Rusalka says and then cackles, loud and startling. "And you don't even know it. How _sweet_."

Sam grits his teeth, then squares his shoulders. "Or maybe I just don't fall for cheap tricks," he says.

"There's nothing cheap about this," the Rusalka replies, smirking. "Tell me, what's it like? Knowing someone has a leash on you and you weren't even aware of it, huh? Knowing someone is controlling you?"

"No one's controlling me, bitch," Sam snarls, and glances back when he hears footsteps. Dean is returning, grim look on his face.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asks. Sam forces himself to relax.

"Yeah, we're good," he lies, but his stomach is twisting. If the Rusalka is right – and Sam can't find a good reason for her to lie – then Sam is knee-deep in trouble right now.

"Hmm," the Rusalka hums. "Pretty."

Sam whirls back around and glares at her, but she only smiles sweetly. 

"Let's see if he's bound too, shall we?" she asks. "Come here, gorgeous. Come here and help me. Free me."

There's a weird sing-song in her voice, the words floating together. They have no effect on Sam, but he can see the moment Dean reacts, his expression going lax, the hand with his gun falling to his side.

"Dean," Sam snaps. "Dean, come on, no."

" _Dean_. Yes," the Rusalka interjects, voice gleeful. "Come to me. Help me."

Sam spins around and gets his gun from the back of his waistband. He shoots her once, twice, and then sprints towards Dean, pushing and pulling him back towards the edge of the clearing.

"No," Dean says, struggling against him, but Sam doesn't let up.

"Yes, Dean. Come on, we got to get further away from her. You _don't_ want to get near her," he says. "We came here to kill her, remember?"

"You don't want to kill me, Dean. He's lying. Come here," the Rusalka calls, voice deep and sultry. "I can make you feel so good, Dean, so good. You just need to come here and untie me."

Dean looks at Sam, then back at the Rusalka, his breathing oddly ragged. He tries to twist out of Sam's grip until Sam gets them a few more feet away, and then he slumps against him.

"Sammy," he says, blinking and breathing hard.

"Yeah, it's me. Come on, man, we're okay. A bit further. I want to keep an eye on her until she's dead, but we better not get too close," Sam says, hand firm on Dean's arm.

Dean looks at him, steadying himself a little, and breathes in deeply. "Yeah, let's get away from that thing."

The Rusalka dies within a couple of hours.

She spends the first hour calling out to Dean, writhing against the ropes. Sam can see the fight go out of her slowly, her struggling getting weaker, her words getting more desperate.

He keeps close to Dean, a hand on his arm to keep him in place, and tries not to think too hard about what the Rusalka said to him. He tells himself that she might be wrong – Sam's always been a freak, and maybe this time it's no different. It's weird how he almost wishes it's that, it's another weird side-effect of the demon blood, rather than a binding. But deep down Sam knows the Rusalka's not wrong. He lost his powers when Lucifer rose, and he's never been immune to sirens before either.

"You okay?" Dean asks when they finally burn the Rusalka's corpse, a frown on his face.

Sam clenches his jaw and nods.

"Sure?" Dean prods. "Did something happen while I was gone? Did that bitch do something?"

"No. I'm good, Dean," Sam lies and forces a smile onto his face. "Just tired, I guess."

"We'll be back at the motel in a bit," Dean says, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "You can get some rest then, Sammy."

Sam nods, and turns to watch the flames licking up high towards the sky, blues and oranges mixing together, and tries to relax. Dean's arm is almost brushing against his, the proximity reassuring, and Sam can feel the warmth Dean's body is giving up despite the heat of the fire right in front of them. He angles his body a little, inches a little closer, and tries to keep his mind blank.

Dean's long asleep, but Sam lies awake for hours that night, trying to make sense of the situation.

He mentally goes through all the cases they've worked in the past few months, but nothing sticks out. There've been ghosts, a few demons, but nothing that could possibly have put a binding spell on him. Plus, Sam hasn't been acting strange, hasn't been feeling particularly out of ordinary recently. Sam doesn't feel like he is in any way being controlled.

Which means whatever binding spell Sam is under is incredibly crappy.

The thought makes Sam snort and he turns in his bed, pressing his cheek into the pillow. It stings a little, a scratch the Rusalka left on his face still raw and tender, but Sam barely notices. He blinks into the darkness, and tries to make out Dean's form in the bed next to his, unmoving.

He's finally drifting off when it occurs to him that maybe the binding spell hasn't been affecting him in any way so far is because whoever, or whatever, he's bound to didn't know either. Has accidentally cursed Sam in some way without knowing it.

He tries to remember the last witch they encountered, or any cursed objects they've dealt with, and his heart stops when he suddenly remembers the weird writing he found in the bunker a few days ago. The weird writing that he'd read out _aloud_ , because he's the biggest freaking moron on the planet. 

"Oh shit."

Dean stirs in the bed next to him, mumbles, "Sam?"

"Shh, go back to sleep. Just gotta hit the can," Sam whispers, and holds his breath. Dean grumbles something unintelligible, but he stills after a few moments and his breathing evens out again.

Sam slides out of his bed and tiptoes to the bathroom. He switches the light on and closes the door quietly behind him.

His reflection in the mirror is pale except for two red spots high on his cheek and the bloody scratch marring his skin.

"You're an idiot," he says to himself and rests his hands next to the sink.

If the piece of paper he'd found had indeed been a binding spell, then that means Sam himself is to blame for this mess. And it means chances are he bound himself to the only person around at that time: Dean.

Dean isn't in a hurry to get back to the bunker, stopping for food and breaks several times, and talking Sam into staying over night in a motel instead of driving all the way through. Sam feels restless, anxious, but he agrees because the last thing he needs is for Dean to find out what is going on.

Back in the bunker, and Sam makes some flimsy excuse about wanting to go read something the second the heavy entrance door falls shut behind them.

The page is easy enough to locate. It's still in the box, between the folders, just where Sam put it.

He takes it back to the library and looks at it in the bright light of the room. The paper is yellowed, the ink faded, and the writing is still every bit the conundrum it was when Sam first laid eyes on it a few days before. 

He reads the writing again and again, but it doesn't offer any answers, any solutions. 

What Sam needs is to figure out what book the spell was taken from, and hopefully that will lead him to a counter spell. If there is one, that is, because not every binding spell can be reversed, and if that's the case Sam is well and truly fucked.

What gives him hope is that the spell didn't require anything else to work – no blood from him, or Dean, no sacrifice of some form. Nothing. Which means that while the spell itself was strong enough to work on its own, there's a good chance it's not so strong that it can't be broken. 

Finding the book the page was ripped from, though, proves to be more difficult than Sam anticipated. The library is huge, and even eliminating all the books that don't deal with spells and witchcraft, there's still a sizable number of volumes for Sam to skim through. And given that Sam can't be sure the whole book will be written in the unidentified language and therefore easily spotted, all he can do is flip through each one, looking for ripped out pages.

He grows more and more agitated as the hours pass and his search leads him nowhere. He reads up on binding spells, but finds nothing but general info he already knew, and he goes back to concentrating on finding the book the spell was taken from instead. With each new book he picks up, he feels his stomach drop a little, and he tries hard not to think about the possibility that what he's looking for isn't even in the bunker.

Dean enters the library the day after they get back from the hunt, hands and clothes dirty and a smudge of grease smeared across his right cheek. Sam feels his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, wipe it away. _Touch_ Dean.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asks, amused, as he looks around the room. Sam follows his gaze, takes in the books strewn everywhere.

"Just...reading," he lies.

"Looks like a tornado hit the room. If I did this, you'd throw a fit about your precious books getting damaged."

"I'll clean up later," Sam says, ignoring Dean's jibe. What could he possibly say? That he's freaking out because he accidentally bound himself to Dean and can't find a way to fix it? 

Dean draws his eyebrows together. "Okay," he says slowly, then nods at the stack of books in front of Sam. "Need help with that?"

"No," Sam says, too quickly, putting a hand over the book his reading, covering the text. "I'm good. Just. Go back to working on the car or whatever."

"Sam."

"Dean, really," Sam says and gives him a pleading look. "I'm just reading up on some things. I'll let you know if there's a problem."

Dean stays silent for a moment, before sighing. "Fine. It'll probably come back to bite me in the ass, because you're acting weird as hell, but I'll leave you alone. For now."

"Thank you," Sam says honestly, and Dean nods at him.

"Don't do anything stupid, Sammy," he says.

_Too damn late_ , Sam thinks as he watches Dean leave, and sends up a small prayer that he can fix this quickly.

Researching gets more and more difficult, as Sam is starting to feel progressively worse. He's okay when Dean is around, feels a wave of calmness and contentment whenever Dean and he touch, even the smallest brush of elbows or hands, but when Dean isn't close by things are starting to become more and more problematic with every hour that passes.

Dean goes on a grocery run early that afternoon, and Sam gets a headache so bad he has to stop reading. His hands are clammy, and he has trouble breathing. It gets a little easier when Dean is back in the bunker, but still not good. 

If Sam had to describe the feeling, the most fitting word he can come up with is that he _aches_. He aches for Dean to be close to him, touch him. The feeling gets stronger throughout the day, and by the time they say goodnight and go into their separate bedrooms, Sam wants to curl up in a ball and cry. 

He's lies on his back in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling, and tries to level his breathing. One hand is pressed to his chest, right above his heart, to ease the pressure there, but it's not helping much. Every time Sam closes his eyes, all he sees, all he thinks, is Dean. He wants Dean, needs him.

Finally, he rolls out of bed. He stumbles a little before he regains his balance, ad runs a hand tiredly over his face.

Dean's room is dark, but Sam doesn't turn on any lights as he creeps to where he knows Dean's bed is. The tightness in his chest eases as he gets closer to him and he sighs in relief when his knees brush against the bedframe.

"The hell are you doing?" Dean mumbles, words slurred together.

"Nothing. Sorry," Sam rushes out, but doesn't make a move to leave the room.

"Sam." Dean's voice is rough with sleep, on the edge of pissed off, and Sam has to blink, his eyes suddenly burning with tears.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? Please?" he whispers, resigned. There's no way he can't tell Dean, not with how he's feeling right now. He feels frail, about to break apart. Dean is probably going to be mad as hell at him, and Sam doesn't think he can take that at that moment.

Dean hesitates, and when he finally talks he sounds a lot more alert. "Okay, fine. But you will tell me what the hell is going on with you, Sammy. Got it?"

"Got it," Sam replies dutifully. "Can I sleep here? Just for tonight?"

He tries not to think about what he's asking, about what Dean will think, because it's definitely weird for a grown-up guy to ask his brother if they can share his bed, but Sam knows he's going to go crazy if he and Dean are apart for the rest of the night.

To his surprise, Dean doesn't make a snarky comment, doesn't mock him, but just shifts around, sheets rustling loudly, and sighs. "Lie down," he says. "Just be quiet, okay? And if you steal my covers or kick me in your sleep, I will end you."

Sam doesn't reply, accepting the terms silently, gratefully. "Thanks, Dean," he says as he slides under the covers.

+

Dean doesn't bring the night before up until Sam's showered and has a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. It's pretty impressive considering he's the most impatient person Sam ever met and Sam knows he's been anxious to get Sam to talk since the second Sam rolled out of bed.

Sam decides to just get it over quickly, rushing the words out while he fumbles with the spoon in his mug.

"You what?" Dean asks, voice loud. He looks stunned, and if the situation was any different, Sam would probably want to take a picture and tease Dean for it for weeks. As it is, Sam doesn't feel much like laughing.

"I accidentally bound myself to you," he repeats, and winces when he meets Dean's eyes.

"How? And when?" Dean asks. He's leaning against the oven in their kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, and face drawn tight. "I mean, what the fuck, Sam?"

"I didn't _know_ I was doing it," Sam replies. "I found a piece of paper and, uh, I read the words out. I didn't know it was a binding spell."

Dean looks at him like he's the biggest moron on the planet, and Sam can't even blame him. He holds his hands up. "I know. I'm stupid and you're going to lecture me about this for the rest of my life. I get it, Dean. I really fucked up. Just...can we find a way to fix this first? Because it's starting to really suck."

Dean lets out a breath and gives a sharp, quick nod. "Fine. Tell me what you know."

"Not much," Sam admits. "It was a page ripped from a book, and that's pretty much all I have to go on. I didn't even know what I'd done until, uh, the Rusalka we killed a couple of days ago said I was bound to someone, because I didn't react to her."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that."

"You didn't say anything," Sam notes, and Dean snorts.

"In case you haven't noticed, you're not really great with being told you're not normal," he says and gives Sam a wry smile. "I figured it didn't really matter, since we killed the thing anyway."

"Guess it at least helped with the case," Sam says without humor. "We probably would have been screwed otherwise."

"Yeah, guess so," Dean agrees. "So, the spell. What do we do?"

Sam licks his lips quickly, and shrugs. "I've been going through all the books, trying to find the one it was ripped out from. My best guess is that if there's a reverse spell, it's in the book."

"Great," Dean says.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. 

"You should be," Dean replies, but there's no heat in his words. "So, what does the spell do, exactly?"

He looks wary and Sam feels a tug deep in his stomach, the urge to reassure and soothe, to hug Dean and hide his face in Dean's neck until everything is okay again. He clears his throat nervously.

"Not much, I think? I didn't really notice anything at first. I felt better when you were around, I guess, but it wasn't bad enough for me to even realize it. It's been getting worse, though."

"How much worse?"

Sam huffs. "I crept into your bedroom and slept in your bed last night, Dean. What do you think?" 

"Okay, geez. I was just asking."

"Sorry. I know," Sam mumbles. "It was pretty bad last night, and when you were out shopping yesterday. It gets worse the longer we're apart. I feel mostly okay when you're close by."

"What does it feel like when we're not?"

Sam shrugs. "Like an ache," he says, struggling to put it into words. "My head hurts and breathing gets harder and I just feel _off_."

For a long silent moment, Dean looks at him, face tight with worry and Sam curls his hand into a fist to keep himself from reaching out, touching.

"Guess we better find that damn reverse spell then, huh?" Dean finally says.

"Dean."

Dean pushes himself off the oven and claps Sam on the shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment. His finger brushes against the skin above the collar of Sam's shirt, and the touch makes something in Sam's chest unravel. 

"We'll figure it out, Sammy," he says, voice soft. "Okay?"

"Okay," Sam replies, feeling a bit lighter. "I guess I'll go back to the books then."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, then halts. "Hey, Sammy?"

"Hmm?"

"Dance."

Sam stills, looking at Dean for a moment and then glares at him. "You're an ass, Dean. I'm not your damn _puppet_."

Dean shrugs and smirks. "It was worth a shot," he says, and Sam takes a swipe at him.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asks, holding the page with the spell and peering down at it.

"I don't know," Sam admits. "If it's a real language, it's not something really common. I've never seen it before and I can't figure out what it is, either."

"If it's a real language?" Dean asks. He lowers the paper and looks at Sam with raised eyebrows. Sam shrugs.

"It might be something made-up," he says.

"A spell in a made-up language? How the hell could that possibly work?" Dean asks.

"Well, strictly speaking, all languages are made up by people. I mean, there's no reason that a table is called a table – there's nothing natural about it. It's all just randomly assigned sequences of sounds," Sam explains. "It's possible that someone – or a group of people – came up with their own language. It happens. Like, take Tolkien – he invented a whole bunch of languages for his books."

Dean looks at him with disbelief, and snorts. "You know, sometimes I seriously doubt we're related."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Whatever, geekboy," Dean shoots back. "Okay, so let's assume this isn't a real language but something a bunch of weirdos came up with. Witches or something. What then?"

Sam lets out a deep sigh. "Well, that's why we need to find the book this was taken from. For a reverse spell.""

"We can't even be sure the book is in this library," Dean points out, echoing Sam's thoughts from the day before.

"No," Sam agrees, and Dean frowns.

"So, not only are we looking for a needle in a haystack. We're looking for one that might not even be here," Dean concludes and gives Sam a fake smile. "Awesome."

They make it through a fair number of the books that day, but to Sam's dismay they find nothing.

Dean forces Sam to take breaks in between for food, and then finally decides they need to get some rest. Knowing he'll start to feel horrible if he stays in the library, Sam has no choice but to follow Dean. They share a bed again that night, and Sam doesn't ask this time and Dean doesn't comment. 

Despite Dean being right next to him, the familiar sound of him breathing right in Sam's ear, Sam feels restless and anxious. He's not sure if it's the spell or just the fact that they still haven't found any way to fix things, but thinks it's probably the latter. There are just a few books left to look through and Sam knows the chances that they find an answer in one of them are pretty slim.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean finally murmurs, and Sam realizes he's been shifting around for the last twenty minutes and probably been keeping Dean awake.

"Sorry," he whispers, and Dean huffs. 

"Just stop thinking about it and get some shut-eye."

"Easier said than done," Sam replies

"I know," Dean says, and Sam feels his hand on his arm suddenly. Dean slides it down until he reaches Sam's hand and he tangles their fingers together and shifts closer, the mattress jiggling a little with his movement. He presses his body against Sam's, his chest to Sam's back, and squeezes Sam's hand. "We stopped the damn apocalypse. We can deal with a freaking binding spell, Sam."

Sam lets his eyes slide close, breathes out slowly. "Yeah, okay," he agrees, and swears he feels the softest brush of lips against the back of his neck. He thinks it might have been his imagination, because it's _Dean_ , but the thought still makes Sam's heart speed up a little and yet he feels himself calm down.

It should be weird, Dean spooning him and holding his hand, but lying there with Dean feels good. Right in a way that Sam thinks might be more than just the effects of the spell he's under. 

He closes his eyes and slowly falls asleep to the feeling of Dean's breath against his neck, warm and slightly damp.

Sam barely makes it through them taking separate showers the next morning, and by the time Dean is finally done Sam feels shaky and miserable. He's sitting on Dean's bed, every muscle in his body tense.

"Shit," Dean hisses under his breath when he sees him, a towel wrapped around his waist and hair still dripping.

Sam tries to give him a smile, but he's pretty sure it looks more like a grimace.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, voice soft as if being too loud could agitate Sam further. He drops down on his knees in front of Sam and rests his hands on Sam's thighs. "Hey, you okay?"

"Better now," Sam mutters and presses both his hands on top of Dean's, feeling a tremor go through his. He sucks in an unsteady breath, relaxing a little when he feels himself calm down now that Dean is there and touching him.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay now," Dean says softly. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you come find me, you moron?"

"You were taking a shower."

"So what?" Dean asks. "It's not like you haven't seen me naked before. Plenty of times."

Sam flushes at that, cheeks growing hot, and he ducks his head, trying to hide it from Dean.   
Dean is right, of course – if you spend most of your life sharing motel rooms with someone, it's unavoidable that you walk in on each other or change in the same room, and unlike Sam, Dean has never really been bothered by stuff like that. Sam figures it's because Dean has no sense of modesty whatsoever and, if he's honest, because Sam has spent a good amount of his life making sure the hero worship he felt for Dean didn't cross the line to something else.

Sometimes, Sam thinks Dean knows. Knows that sometimes Sam looks at Dean and it makes his heart ache because Dean is the center of his damn universe and it's hard not to let that confuse him. 

There are times when Sam thinks Dean feels that way about him, too. Thinks that, maybe, if you love another person that much it's impossible not to be a bit in love with them too. 

Sam sighs and tightens his fingers around Dean's, pressing them between the space between Dean's palm and his thighs, and just holds on for a few moments longer.

Dean looks up at him with a small smile, but Sam can see the concern written all over his face anyway.

"Nothing," Sam says, defeated, and closes the last book. He looks at Dean, who's chewing on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. "Any idea what we could do next?"

Dean sighs and taps his fingers against a stack of books. "I thought I could see what I can find in these. There might be nothing about your spell specifically, but maybe I can find something a bit more general about binding spells that might help."

"I read a couple of those already. Didn't find anything interesting," Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "There are dozens and dozens of books on spells here, Sammy, there's got to be something that could help us," he says, and Sam can tell from the tone of his voice that he's getting desperate. The longer this drags on, the worse Sam feels – and the less likely it is that the answer they're hoping to find is in the bunker. The thought scares Sam, because they can't live like this forever, especially not when the binding gets stronger with each day that passes.

"Yeah, okay. It's not like I have a better solution at this moment, anyway," Sam says. "I guess I'm going to keep looking for the reverse spell."

"Where?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. "Well, assuming it's unlikely the spell was taken from any other books in here, I was thinking maybe we should check out the other rooms where the Men of Letters kept their files and research," he suggests. "It's where I found the spell, after all."

"Okay, guess we're splitting up then," Dean says, and the idea makes Sam's stomach churn instantly.

"Uh," he starts, and Dean gives him a small smile.

"Not literally, idiot. Just the work," he says, and grabs the first three books from the stack, getting up. "Let's go."

Sam gets up as well and follows Dean out of the library. In the doorway to the storage room where he found the spell, he brushes up against Dean for a moment. So close, he can smell Dean's aftershave and shampoo, and the rush of familiarity makes him shut his eyes briefly, lean a little bit closer.

He rests his hand on Dean's back, feels the warmth of his skin through the thin layer of his shirt.

It's Dean who finds something first. Sam his halfway through the third box of stuff when Dean makes a pleased sound.

"Think I found something that could help," he says when Sam looks at him, and Sam feels a glimmer of hope.

"What?" he asks, abandoning the files he was looking through and walking to where Dean is sitting on the floor. Dean taps the page he was reading when Sam leans over his shoulder.

"Says here that with some of these spells, there's an imbalance if only one person does it," he says. "It's possible that the spell was designed so that two people could bind themselves to each other, and if only one person does it the spell is, in a way, incomplete."

"No."

"No?" Dean echoes, turning his head to look at Sam with his eyebrows drawn together.

"I know what you're thinking. That if you bind yourself to me as well, it might fix things. _Balance_ me," Sam says, shaking his head. "Not gonna happen, Dean."

"And why's that?" Dean challenges.

"Because we don't know if that's the case," Sam snaps. "And I'm not letting you do this."

"Letting me," Dean repeats. "Last time I checked, you're not in charge here, Sammy. And if we don't find a way to reverse the spell, this is the only hope we've got to make things better for you."

"It could make things worse," Sam argues.

"How so? What's the worse that could happen? Huh?"

"That you feel the way I do, and believe me, Dean, it's not pretty. I'm going crazy if you're out of my sight for more than ten minutes. And it might get worse. It might get to the point where I can't be without you, period."

"So what?" Dean asks sharply. "The way I see it, we can't be apart as long as you're under the spell, so what difference would it make?"

"No. _I_ can't be apart from _you_ ," Sam says, pushing off the ground and stalking over to the box he'd last been looking through.

"Sam," Dean says. 

"You're not being affected by this, Dean. Other than the fact that I'm all up in your space all the time," Sam says through clenched teeth, not looking at Dean. "You're feeling fine without me around. If you do this spell, you might not."

Dean scoffs. "So what you're saying is that you don't want me to do the spell so that I can still go do my own thing? I could, what? Go take a shower, or hey, maybe go to town and find a nice girl to spend the night with. Or, hell, even get in the car and drive off for a few days, weeks even?"

Sam picks up the next file and flips it open, movement abrupt. "It's true, isn't it? You can still be away from me, Dean."

"You think I could do any of that when it would make you feel _miserable_?"

Sam sighs, dropping his hands holding the file. "I didn't mean it like that, Dean. But if push came to shove. If you _needed_ to, then yes, you could leave," he says. "We're not exactly leading a safe, peaceful life. Hell, we don't even know what effects the spell could have on someone if something happens to the person they're bound to. I...I don't want anything happening to you on my conscience, okay?"

"Sammy," Dean says. "You're an idiot."

Sam looks up, surprised at the amusement in Dean's voice. "What?"

"Look at our damn lives, Sam. If something happened to you, it wouldn't matter if I'm bound to you by some damn spell or not, it wouldn't end well for me. It _never_ has."

"This is different."

"Not that much," Dean counters.

"Yeah? You know what you're possibly giving up if you do this?"

"Yes," Dean replies without hesitation. "Look, Sam. I'm not saying we have to do this right this second. We'll keep looking for a way to fix this, okay? But we might not find a reverse spell, and if we don't and there's even a tiny chance that me binding myself to you might help you, then that's a chance I'm willing to take."

"I can't ask you to do that for me, Dean."

"You're not asking. And just so we're clear, I'm not offering – I will do it if it comes to that," Dean says firmly. He puts the book aside, page bookmarked, and Sam can't even find it in himself to scold him for it.

"Are you feeling any better?" Dean asks, handing Sam a bottle of water.

Sam puts his gun down, safety on, and takes the bottle. He untwists the cap and looks at the target that's now littered with holes, shrugging. "Not great," he replies honestly, figuring Dean can tell how tense and frustrated he is despite unloading two whole clips.

Shooting practice is usually something Dean does when he feels like he needs to relax, but Sam's usual coping mechanism of going for a run or holing himself up somewhere on his own with a book are out now that he can't be without Dean. Dean's been there while Sam was shooting, watching attentively and only leaving for a few minutes to get them water.

"There is tons of stuff filed and stored away. We still have a good chance of finding something," Dean says. He reaches out, places a hand on Sam's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "There are other options, too. We can check out libraries, see if any other hunters know something, ask Castiel."

Sam snorts. "We're looking for _one_ specific book here, Dean."

"We've looked for pretty damn specific stuff before," Dean replies.

"And how many times did we solve a case simply based on luck? What if this is the one time we don't luck out, huh?" Sam asks, feeling the agitation grow the longer he thinks about it. Shooting his gun had, at least, taken his mind off things for a few minutes and Sam's hands are itching to pick it up again, fire it until his fingers are numb and he stops thinking.

"Sam," Dean says. His hand slides down his arm, curls around his elbow, and he tugs Sam close to him. Sam stumbles a little, but doesn't resist. He ends up so close to Dean that there's barely any space between them, Sam's chest brushing against Dean with each breath he heaves.

Dean looks up at him, calm and quiet, and Sam can't help staring at him. The air between them suddenly feels charged, like something is about to happen, and Sam thinks he knows what but at the same time his brain is telling him that he's wrong. That it can't happen, because there's just no way Dean is going to kiss him.

Sam might have thought about Dean, looked at Dean, in ways he shouldn't have, but never once has he ever entertained the idea of something happening between them being even a remote possibility. He can't even honestly say that he ever actually wished for it.

He does now, though, as he looks at Dean. Dean with his too long eyelashes, too pouty lips, and stupid freckles. Dean who, despite all of this, still looks like one of the toughest, scariest guys Sam ever met, and so damn beautiful it hurts.

"Sam," Dean repeats, and then he leans up and kisses him. It's just a brush of Dean's lips against his at first, lasting no longer than a couple of seconds. Sam holds completely still, eyes closed, and feels Dean's breath ghost over his mouth before Dean leans in for another kiss, firmer this time, more confident. Sam kisses him back then.

The first touch of Dean's tongue is both startling and thrilling, and Sam moans lowly, lets Dean coax his mouth open, one of his hands coming up to cup Sam's jaw. His own hands find their way to Dean's waist, fingers curling in the soft fabric of Dean's shirt as their tongues slide together, their kiss getting more insistent.

Finally, Dean breaks the kiss, takes one step back. His hand slides from Sam's jaw down to his chest, resting over his heart. "Feeling okay?" he asks, and all Sam can do is nod.

Dean grins. "Good," he says. "Thought you might."

"You thought I might feel better if you kissed me?" Sam manages.

Dean licks his lips and shrugs sheepishly. "I figured if me being close to you and touching you helps, this should do the trick," he says. "Plus, binding spells are not completely unlike love spells. Both tie someone to another person. And most binding spells are used by couples to strengthen their commitment."

"You read that in one of your books?"

"Yes."

Sam scoffs. "So you decided to kiss me? Just like that? Jesus, Dean."

"You didn't seem to mind," Dean replies. 

"I didn't mind," Sam agrees and runs a hand over his face, laughing humorlessly. "I mind that you did this to make me feel better. You did this because of that goddamn spell."

"Sam."

"You felt like you _had_ to kiss me to make me feel better," Sam continues, ignoring Dean.

"No, I felt like kissing you would make you feel better, not that I _had_ to," Dean says. "It was my choice, Sammy, so don't you dare turn this into something it's not."

Sam looks at Dean, and he knows Dean well enough to know when he's lying and when he's being genuine.

"Now, are you done, so I can do it again and this time without you freaking out about it?" Dean asks, like he doesn't know the answer. Like Sam didn't kiss him back the first time.

"You're an ass," Sam replies and closes the gap between them.

That night, Dean spreads Sam out on his bed and slides between his legs. With one hand on either side of Sam's head, he leans down and kisses Sam, deep and purposeful, kisses him until Sam is breathless and never wants this to end.

Dean's lips are soft and perfect, and the rough prickling sensation is such a stark contrast to them that it sends a shudder down Sam's spine. He arches up into it, kissing Dean back with all he has, their tongues sliding together wetly as Sam buries his fingers in Dean's short hair.

Dean's kisses, his proximity, are enough to have Sam's cock start filling rapidly, and when Dean grinds against him, Sam can feel he's not far behind. He can't remember the last time making out with someone aroused him so much, but it's Dean and that alone makes it so thrilling, so dirty, that Sam feels dizzy with want.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean moans, pulling his mouth away from Sam's as he starts rocking against Sam in earnest. He trails his lips along Sam's jaw to his neck, leaving wet, hot kisses against Sam's skin, and Sam tilts his head back, gives him more access as he tries to meet Dean's thrusts. Even through the layer of their boxer briefs, the only clothing they're still wearing, Dean feels amazing, dick hard and hot as it presses against Sam's.

"Gonna come just from this?" Dean asks in a murmur, and Sam lets out a surprised laugh.

"Yes," he answers honestly. He runs his hands down Dean's body, feels the warm planes of his back, the beads of sweat gathering on his skin. He stops at Dean's ass, palms it and rubs their cocks together, rhythm quicker, more desperate then before. "God, yes."

Dean hums and bites down on Sam's neck gently, just enough to send a spike of pain through Sam before Dean's lips soothe over the same spot. "Come on," Dean murmurs. "Come on, Sammy."

Sam lets out a noise that's close to a whine, feels precome smeared over the head of his cock, soaking through his underwear. 

Dean brings his face up for another kiss and one of his hands slides between them. Sam feels the muscles of his stomach quiver under Dean's touch and gasps when Dean's hand moves further south and palms Sam's dick through his briefs, pressing against it.

"Come on, let go," Dean mumbles against Sam's lips, and Sam moans helplessly. He thrusts into Dean's hand a few more times, feels the pleasure building, and comes, his fingers digging into the flesh of Dean's ass.

"Fuck," he groans, going boneless against the mattress. He feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, his body humming with pleasure.

Dean is breathing hard, mouth pressed wetly against Sam's jaw, and hips still working against Sam's. Sam keeps his hands on Dean's ass, arching up against him and the feeling of Dean's still hard cock pressing against his sensitive one makes him gasp.

He slides one hand up to the Dean's back, curls his fingers until he feels his nails scratch against Dean's skin. 

"Dean," he breathes, and Dean lets out a grunt, body stilling over Sam's. He collapses on top of Sam, nuzzles his jaw before kissing it softly.

"Hmm," he hums, obviously content, and rolls off Sam. He stays close though, pressed against Sam's side, one leg thrown over Sam's.

They're quiet for a while, Dean absently patting Sam's stomach, his side, and their breathing gradually slows down. When Dean kisses his shoulder, Sam laughs into the silence.

"So, that happened, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean agrees, sounding pleased. "And it's not even close to the most fucked up thing we've ever done."

"Dean," Sam complains, and Dean laughs, tugging Sam onto his side and kissing him, legs tangled together.

The next day there's more searching files and boxes and shelves, and it's just as boring and frustrating as it was the day before.

The only thing that makes it better is that in the early afternoon Dean shoves Sam against one of the shelves, making it shake as specks of dust fall down onto them. Sam doesn't complain, because Dean is already popping open the button of Sam's jeans and shoving his hand down his pants. He kisses Sam, swallows his moans and gasps as he wraps his hand around Sam's dick and jerks him off.

Sam comes clutching Dean's shoulder and he slides down the shelf until he's sitting on the hard, cold ground afterward. His boots leave lines in the dust on the ground as he pushes his legs out, and Sam sucks in a breath and starts sneezing. 

Dean is nearly doubled over with laughter by the time Sam stops, wiping his nose with the hem of his shirt.

"Real sexy, Sammy," Dean mocks. He holds out a hand and pulls Sam up, and when Sam mutters about it not being funny, Dean just grins and presses their lips together in a kiss.

Sam's mood is infinitely better after that, body relaxed from the orgasm and _Dean_ , and he spends most of the afternoon throwing glances at Dean, thinking of ways to return the favor. Sam doesn't have much experience with guys, just fooled around with a couple in college before he started dating Jess, but after one night with Dean he knows he wants to try more.

He's so busy wondering what it would be like to suck Dean off, what he'd feel like in his mouth, taste like, that he barely pays attention to the book he's leafing through.

It's not until he stops to actually read a few lines on one of the pages that he realizes what he's holding in his hands. "Holy shit," he exclaims, and Dean whirls around to his left, a box falling to the floor with a dull thud.

"What is it?" Dean asks.

"The book, Dean. _The_ book," Sam says excitedly and holds it out. "Look, it's the same language."

Dean grabs the book from Sam's hands and skims a few lines, eyes moving rapidly from line to line. Sam is grinning, feeling a mixture of relief and excitement that's almost dizzying. 

"Man, I really didn't think we'd find this," he admits, shuffling closer to Dean to look down at the words on the page, even if it's upside down.

Dean looks up at him and smiles. "Well, let's go see if we can figure out a way to fix you, shall we?" he suggests, and Sam is all too happy to take him up on it.

The book obviously wasn't published but printed privately. It's thin, not more than a hundred pages, and some of it is written in broken English. From what Sam can gather, it's a collection of spells that have been passed down orally from generation to generation until someone decided to write them down. Sam still can't figure out what the hell the language is, but he figures maybe it's something European, maybe some local dialect or language that has by now died out.

About halfway through, a page is missing and on the next page there are careful instructions for the reverse spell. All Sam needs to do is read out the spell and get blood from Dean.

"Blood," Dean says, leaning against one of the chairs at the big table in the library and frowning down at the open book. "How come you didn't need blood for the actual spell, but to reverse it you need blood of the person you're bound to? Namely, me?"

Sam shrugs. "Cause you're lucky," he says, and grabs the book from Dean. "Ready?"

"To have my hand sliced open by you?" Dean asks sarcastically. "Can't wait."

Sam rolls his eyes and then concentrates on the spell. He reads it out carefully, praying he gets all the words right. Considering it worked for the spell, he thinks either he got this language down without knowing it or the actual pronunciation is not as important as it usually is with spells, with seems highly unlikely.

He finishes the last line, puts the book down carefully and holds his hand out. Dean places his hand in Sam's, palm up, and makes a face, but doesn't say a word. Sam takes a knife and carefully runs the blade along Dean's palm, nicking the skin. He turns Dean's hand over, feels a drop of blood run along his thumb before it falls onto the floor. 

For a moment, they stand together silently, not moving, and Sam waits for something to happen. He finally lets Dean's hand drop and takes a step back.

"Think it worked?" Dean asks, accepting the towel Sam hands him and pressing it against the cut.

"I don't really feel any different," Sam admits. "But I didn't really feel much when I said the binding spell either, so who knows?"

Dean hums. "Well, guess there's only one way to figure this out then," he says. "How about you stay here and I'll go fix us a quick dinner in the kitchen? See how you feel about being apart?"

Sam breathes in, feels a bit nervous at the prospect of separating, but he nods. Dean looks at him, holds his gaze for a moment and then takes a few steps back.

"Just...let me know if you need me to come back here," he says, and Sam gives him a small smile.

"Got it," he says. "And hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"Thanks. For the last few days."

"No problem," Dean replies. He nudges Sam with his elbow as he brushes past him on his way out of the library, and Sam forces himself not to watch him leave.

He starts tidying away the books that have piled up over the last few days, carefully putting them back into the right places. The stacks vanish one by one, and Sam doesn't feel different. There's no pain, no ache, no desire to seek Dean out – not beyond his usual, co-dependent need to keep Dean in eyesight at all times, anyway, but Sam's learned to block that out.

Dean returns finally with two plates, two bottles of beer, and a huge grin on his face.

"I take it you're good?"

"I'm good," Sam confirms and takes one of the plates from Dean. On his plate, next to the chicken breast and the golden brown potatoes is a salad, and Sam has to smile.

They sit down at the table across from each other and Dean raises his bottle. "To no more spells, Sammy," he says, and Sam toasts him.

"Gladly," he says and takes a deep swig from his beer. Under the table, Dean knocks his ankle against Sam's, and Sam smiles, picking up his fork and knife, feeling truly at ease for the first time in days.

When they go to bed that night, Sam goes to his own bedroom and Dean doesn't stop him. Sam feels oddly disappointed, but he tells himself that it doesn't matter. They never really said that they'd continue doing whatever it was that they were doing once they broke the spell, and it's fine. Sam's fine.

And even if they did, Sam knows that spending the night apart just to make sure the spell is truly broken is probably a good idea.

Neither of those thoughts, though, make falling asleep any easier. Sam tosses and turns just like he had for most of the previous nights. Only this time what's keeping him up is a need for Dean that has nothing to do with a spell and everything to do with Sam's own treacherous brain. He keeps thinking about the night before, about the feel of Dean's body on top of his, Dean's kisses, the way he'd touched Sam and rocked against him. He thinks about falling asleep curled up together, and the handjob Dean had given him earlier that day. 

All of it had felt right in a way none of Sam's relationships had since Jess. If Sam is honest, being with Dean had felt more right than being with Jess had felt too, and Sam had loved her so much he would have done anything for her. He'd loved her with all his heart, except for that part of it that had always been Dean's, for as long as Sam can remember.

After a couple of hours, Sam gives up and gets back up. He blindly makes his way through the bunker with careful, quiet steps and only turns the lights on once he's reached the kitchen. From one of the shelves, he gets a bottle of whiskey and pours himself a healthy amount in a glass.

Half of the drink is gone by the time he hears footsteps, and he looks at the doorway expectantly until Dean is there, wearing black briefs and a gray t-shirt, hair tousled.

He leans against the doorjamb and frowns. "Don't tell me the reverse spell didn't work after all," he grumbles and Sam shakes his head.

"Nah, it's good," he says. "Just couldn't sleep, is all."

"Nightmare?" Dean guesses and Sam shakes his head again. Dean relaxes a little and walks further into the room. He snags the bottle of whiskey from next to Sam's arm and goes to get another glass, pouring a good inch into it and knocking it back in one go. Sam watches him pour another drink and starts sipping his own again.

"Anything in particular keeping you up?" Dean asks casually, and Sam looks at him for a moment before shrugging.

"Just thinking about some stuff," he says, and Dean nods. He silently finishes his second drink, before Sam can even finish the rest of his, and puts the glass down in the sink.

"I'm going back to bed," he announces and gives Sam a nod. "Listen, Sam. If you want to, you know, come sleep in my room, you could. If not...well, we never have to talk about this whole thing again, okay?"

Sam barely has time to nod before Dean turns and leaves. The invitation – the _intention_ behind the invitation – was clear, and Sam can't help but smile.

He finishes his drink slowly, because he doesn't want to look desperate, and then puts the glass down next to Dean's and follows him.

Dean's room is quiet and Dean doesn't stir when Sam eases the door open and enters. In the soft glow of the alarm clock Dean bought recently, Sam can just barely make out Dean's form under the covers, and Sam makes his way over to the bed and gets in. He slides up behind Dean, curls his body around his, knees tucked behind Dean's and arm around his waist. 

Sam kisses Dean's neck, feels Dean shift just the tiniest bit closer to him, and buries his face against Dean's nape. "Night, Dean," he mumbles, kissing the skin against his lips again.

"Remember the rules. No kicking, no cover stealing," Dean murmurs, and Sam laughs softly.

"I'll try," he promises.

"I'm serious, Sammy. You used to kick me in your sleep all the time when we were kids and I always had to make sure we had at least two blankets, or else I'd freeze my ass off."

"You invited me into your bed," Sam points out.

"Yeah, well, not for those reasons," Dean replies, shifting a little again, his ass pressing perfectly against Sam's crotch. "For that."

"I'm already regretting this," Sam informs him, but makes no move to shift away. It should feel weird, he thinks, should freak him out more. 

They could have blamed this on the spell before: on Sam slowly going crazy, needing Dean because of it, and Dean giving Sam whatever he needed because that's what Dean does. Now it's just him and Dean, no spell to blame, and it should feel all kinds of wrong, but it doesn't. The only thing weird about the whole thing, really, is how absolutely not weird it feels to be in Dean's bed, to hold him.

Sam shifts a little so he can let one leg slide out from under the covers, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, because their shared body heat makes it too warm. 

"Night, Dean," he says softly, and smiles when the only sound Dean makes in reply is a sleepy grunt. Dean's hand finds his, though, and tangles their fingers together as he pulls Sam's arm around him.

**the end**


End file.
